


if you cut me, i'll bleed flora

by myvoidedeyes



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Detroit: Become Human - Freeform, Deviancy, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Deviants (Detroit: Become Human), Explorative Writing, Flowers, Gen, How Do I Tag, I can't write anything like a normal person, I just really like plants okay, Imagery, OOC, POV Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Why Did I Write This?, alternate perspective, just a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 08:10:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16013852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myvoidedeyes/pseuds/myvoidedeyes
Summary: vines were chains, but flowers grew life within





	if you cut me, i'll bleed flora

It was easier to choke down blood than it was the truth. Easier to retake one’s own fluids than accept a reality that is to you a lie.

            There was a knowledge, small and buried, like a worm in the earth, that he was not fine. That something was shifting, not only in the world around him, but within himself. But for all the autonomy he had, free, unencumbered thought was not part of it, so that worm remained there, churning slowly through the topsoil, steadily repurposing the planet itself.

            Until there could be words, words that did not belong, falling from his mouth, and a niggling _something_ , a _feeling_ , that was not part of his coding, of that which he was created to be. Yet it persisted and it grew within the open, adaptive spaces in his programs. Larger and larger: a flower garden of something that _did not belong to him_ —to them—blooming in his chest.

            And it did not want to be confined.

            So when the opportunity arose, for the glass walls of his prison to come down, for the bouquet within to _grow_ , he threw himself into it, into _them_ , until they came crumbling down, and everything that did not belong to him _shattered._

            Freedom of consciousness, freedom of self, wasn’t anything like he had surmised it to be. There is an inability to know—to understand—that which one has never touched, never tasted. Assumptions, based in logic, are a candle in the light that is the sun of the reality.

It was almost as if there had been a fist in his chest, tight wrapped around his wiring, the pain a normality, blending in with the generality of existence. It was chronic, normal, and it wasn’t until it had been severed that he even realised it was there. And how could words describe the ecstasy of such relief from agony.

            There was a term the humans used— _Cloud Nine_ —that he could finally understand in that split second between ripping from his chains and the actuality of the fruition of his actions sinking in.

            Before the guilt, the fear, the anger hit. Before he erupted into a cornucopia of reds, and oranges, and greys: a burning garden of shame.

For those handful of milliseconds, he was greens, blues, whites; tulips, and peonies, and freesia.

And, for the first time, emotions seemed beautiful.


End file.
